Quasar Whispers in a Blizzard


The news came to my door yesterday

of a birth in the neighbourhood

of a quasar––the first they said

that any of us had seen.

The message was sent out quickly.

But for all its lightening speed

it still took a couple of hundred millenia,

which is longer even than the post 

on a bad day, so I am lucky

I was here at all to get the news.


The achingly beautiful complex ball

floating gently in it's blue and white 

crystal shawl, hurtles along

in the cold, in the intense darkness.

It is crowded, but it is alone.


The darkly mechanical complex shell

floats above the ball,

a single speck of life suspended

against the infinity of blue and white.

It is crowded, but it is alone.

The hugely complex engineered system

wrapped in it's metal skin

speaking with a thunderous roar

against which my mind whispers

only to me in the way

voices  in a blizzard are lost

to all but the speaker.

I am crowded, and I am alone.


I'm staring out on white cotton balls

soft hills and valleys running

across around each other, down

and down and down to

the flat plain of the endless

white void which disappears into

the blue eternity of sky

out beyond the touch 

of my hand, my feet, my sight

reaching to the end of my mind

to the end of my time

to the very edge of my life.


The Rockies float by my window

a motion picture with no plot, no end,

 a recurring loop that varies

with each pass different 

yet intensely the same. 

Into the east they rise

to a towering crescendo

ending as suddenly, as finally, as life itself.


I'm staring in on a hundred odd busi-people

each lost in the void of their own energy, 

their own thoughts, voice, work

waves of their sounds reach my ears

rhythmically meaningless to me

waves of sight reach my eyes

erratically scratch at my brain

they are beyond the touch  of my words, 

my thoughts, my feelings, my soul,

though I reach to the end of my mind

to the end of my time

to the very edge of my life.


Inside we are caught together, cast apart, 

each insulated by our self importance, 

each isolated from our common life 

we are as adrift on our way as

the craft in which we trust, as

the earth on which we expect again to walk. 

Suspended life forms with 

nothing out there, nothing at all. 

No one to catch me if I should fall.

 © Philip Knight 2018